


Laurels for the Tide

by imochan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP Reversathon, M/M, MWPP Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imochan/pseuds/imochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brighton, summer of 1977.  Becoming men.</p><p>Written for the HP Reversathon, 2005, under the name Nancy Clumpfinger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laurels for the Tide

**Title:** Laurels for the Tide  
 **Author:** Nancy Clumpfinger  
 **Pairing:** Sirius/James  
 **Rating:** R/NC17  
 **Warnings:** Slash, boyfumblings, bad language, minor drug use  
 **Wordcount:** 3, 132  
 **Summary:** Brighton, summer of 1977. Becoming men.  


It's the thrill of the conqueror, he realizes. The certain, wide-legged stance of a boy on the crest of a dune. The magnificent memory of seven glorious years of instilling terror and respect into the stairwells of a school. The ability to cock an eyebrow, clench a fist, and make someone squeal. The mesh of a body into another shape – the impossible, they call it. To coax laughter from a throat closed up with guilt, or hurt, or reluctance. To hear and feel the crack of a bone under his fist. To know to pass the coffee without being asked. To have a brother, and have a Brother. To never, _ever_ need to find the words I'm sorry. The edge of his teeth when he sees blood on the skin of one of Them. _To hold your jaw fucking tight and high, when other people called it running away._ The fabulous rush of spraying a lazy kick of sand onto James's sandcastle, banishing it into dust.

"Fucking bully!" James laughs.

To glare at the sunset, he realizes. To watch the sun die, rose-lipped and pregnant, and think, _Aha. I can outlive the universe._

"So," says James, into the pink air, voice like a mothwing. "How fucked are you?"

"Really," he says, laughing, the King of Everything. "Really, really, _real_ ly fucked."

"Figured," says James. "Haha! I mean, I can't move my fucking legs."

"Okay," he says. "All right. I can carry you, you know."

"Christ," says James. "We got any more?"

He closes a fist on empty air, sand, the crisp little curl of some paper, that's all. "Nnh."

"Fuck – " James laughs. "Just as well."

"I can, you know. I will," he murmurs, into the thick weight of the air, it might be James's skin, the inside of his elbow, smelling like seasalt evaporated from his freckles, and the way that a hollow place of a body catches the light and holds it there away from the shadows. "Carry you."

"Christ. Shut up, Sirius," James says, low like the rush of the world. "I _know_ , all right."

* * *

James got the strange, crisp-white cigarettes, the ones that smelled like crumbled tea leaves, from a muggle named Pat who had lazy eyes and bright red swimming trunks. They met under the docks by the Potter's summerhouse, with the sun like a brand in Sirius's eyes and the sand crackling on the soles of his browned feet, and James acting ridiculous, really, just ridiculously shifty about it all.

They'd smoked the first one under the dock, after Pat left. Sirius watched the sun filter into the cracks of the boards above them, and James laughed at the salt and fingers smudges on his own glasses, and the back of Sirius's head prickled, when he moved, as if the world were trying to slow him down by tugging on his hair. There was sand on the backs of their legs, sunburns on their knees, freckled hot skin on their noses and cheeks and the tips of their ears. The wood of the dock was mossy where the tide sometimes hit it, rocked it to sleep, the rocks at their back were cool in the shade of the moving sky. There were clamshells and crab husks sifting through their fingers, seaglass and ground-down pebbles, and wet clay.

Before the burnout of the sun, Sirius caught dried seaweed between his toes, and he realized, momentously, that it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

* * *

Sirius got the camera from an antique stall. If they walked into town, with their shoes hanging down their backs, fingers hooked in the laces, legs long and loping, and James's glasses glinting, there was an old man sitting by the dirt road. He had a blanket of trinkets: tin pots, old ceramic bowls, a wood piece that looked more craven than carved, and gears, hatchets, cranks, chains, an old camera. Sirius swapped it for a bit of galleon gold, told the old man it was a pirate doubloon, and hung the heavy thing from his neck with a shoelace.

* * *

It takes six charms, two hours, and a good kick to the back of the shutter, but it works, and takes glorious graphite-coloured photographs that move, _sometimes_ , when they think you aren't looking.

Sirius takes a picture of the back of his hand, of the moss on the wood of the docks, of spidercrabs scuttling down the rock walls, of the sunset, and the sunrise the next day, of seagulls and crannies in the cove, of a line of dried starfish and sand dollars, of he and James on the sandbar out on the water, of James and the fish they caught, of James's sandcastle, of James's sandcastle post-apocalypse, of James shouting at him to _stop lugging that fucking thing around and clicking it off in my face_ , of James, blissful and full on the porch of the summer home: eyes closed, cheeks freckled and shoulders rawpink, sun glinting off his glasses like the burning knub of a herbed, crisp cigarette, of James passed out on his bed: sand on the sheets, sunburnt nose, mouth parted like the wet dip of a pool of water in the sand, hair spread like the black foam of the waves at night, like the wild feathers of a cormorant, like _fucking poetry_ , thinks Sirius, _fuck_.

* * *

It is the inevitable. Too much of a buzz, in sun and sand and saltwater and acrid smoke still lingering in their lungs. And James says, _I really like her_ , and Sirius suddenly, quietly, with a disgustingly unfounded, implacable, unplaced rage, hates the colour red, hates women, hates the smell of flowers.

"I know," he says. "So. She doesn't like _you_ , mate, ha ha."

"Shut up," grins James, and flicks a bit of sand from his bare belly. They are lying on their backs, on the docks, with the sun crusting their hair gold and their skin rasping with wood and grit. Sirius has abandoned the camera at the kitchen table of the summer home, partially on purpose. They are lazy with a week of absolute indulgence, closeness, and Sirius has chewed his bottom lip raw over a photograph, and so, he realizes, this is the inevitable.

"I really," says James. "Do. It's."

"Disgusting," Sirius mutters.

" _All the time_ ," James groans, Sirius feels him shift, the little twist of his spine he makes when he's embarrassed, or when he's sleeping, cold, and wants the blankets back. "I think about her. All the time."

"Oh god, it's love," Sirius rolls his eyes, sits up, surveys the sunset on James's bare shins.

"Oh, fuck you, how'd you know, anyway?" James laughs, scraping his calf with an absent heel. Sirius follows the movement, realizes he knows James's freckles, even the new ones, all the way down to his feet.

"Do you?" asks James.

There is love, thinks Sirius. There is loving someone, and there is being eaten alive. He has a comparison, he thinks, because he _does_ have family. There is Regulus, in his fucking tower, with eyes like wet blackberries and white fingers and sick-pale lips. When they were small, Sirius said it to him once, as if to test it out, to roll it on his tongue. It was like the foreign touch of a spice, a thick, cloying, curious little sound that went: _I – (and here, insert the verb of one's choice) - you_ , and the whole world changes. Regulus looked at him like it might not have been English, like it might not have been true; like maybe, Sirius was mad. And there is James, who bleeds it like magic, in his house, his mates, the little gingerbird. There's love, thinks Sirius, there's what love is _supposed_ to be, and then there's _you_.

He laughs, and hooks his arms around his knees. "'Course not. See me chasing after anyone?"

James shrugs. "No."

And there is it, the end of that. There it is, well played, thinks Sirius. No more 'did you ever', 'have you ever thought', or, _what if we…_

* * *

What if we, he thinks, in the hollowed-out light of dawn, with James sprawled out and snoring in the attic bed, early August all crossed out in black ink, on the calendar on the wall.

He sits, shaking, with the photograph on his lap, blood on his bottom lip, and a boyish mess of come on his hands.

 _Fuck you, Potter,_ he whispers, spine bent with shame and horror and the sick, tingling clench in his belly, with the taste of brackish copper on the tip of his tongue, with the betraying, pleasured, terrified shudder of his own body when he licks his fingers clean.

* * *

The idea of September lurches up in front of them and sinks its teeth into the best-laid plans. They wear jumpers at night, on the beach and docks and on the grassy spit of dune in front of the porch, where they lie on their backs. They still watch the stars, which seem brighter without the humid fog of a hot night; they still watch the spread of violet-grey night clouds, the dull-white _hssh_ of the waves out beyond their stretched toes, the blue-white bob of the lanterns that Mrs. Potter put up for the dinner party in July, and never took down. They still sleep with the attic window open, because the breeze cools the damp skin at the backs of their necks after swimming, and Sirius likes to shove the sheets aside to let air at his belly, his thighs, his sometimes-heaving chest. But --

"Last one," says James, with the breeze of the open window on their faces. They sit on an old metal trunk, shoved up against the sill, with their legs propped up on the alcove wall, knees touching, James rolling the little paper with wet fingertips, on their thighs. They worship the end of summer by baring their legs, what remains of their tan and freckles; James still hates to wear a shirt, and Sirius only wears his swim trunks, the skin on the back of their legs sticks to the metal with the memory of humidity.

"Ngh," Sirius mumbles, tongue swiping between his thumb and forefinger. _Cherish_. "Give it here, I'll – got the - ?"

James's wand is lit with a tip of a flame, and they cup the beginning red flare against the paper, together, with both their hands. It crinkles, hisses; it runs like dry, deep sigh, down to Sirius's spine, and when he exhales, like a groan, James laughs.

"Fuck, mate. Don't _cry_ over't or anything."

Shut it, Sirius thinks, but grins, smoke wreathing the shafts of light around them. You have _no_ idea.

Sirius wants to imagine that this is the slowest, most perfect moment in his life: he and James crammed into this small space _they_ made, heads bent to the movements, they share inhales, share air, pass the burning paper with saliva-sticky fingers; their ankles brush together, and the rasp of bared, warm, tingling-brown skin. Sirius's nose presses against James's jaw; he can feel the little hiccough of air, as if James is swallowing it down into his belly.

"How'sit?" James slurs – he slurs when he's happy, tired, delirious, _real_ ly fucked, thinks Sirius.

"Mh," he says. "Good."

It is. There is sunlight hitting his closed eyes, the smell of burning herbs and sand and saline ocean on the wind, and the fading scent of old, oaken wool chests, and the rasp of James Potters's stubble on the bridge of his nose, on the ridge of his cheekbone; his eyelashes stick to James's skin.

"Never," he mumbles, tongue like a thick, free-falling helpless being. "Never felt – ha ha, Potter, you've got wee growths!" He swipes the flat of a thumb over James's chin, grinning.

James swats, laugh like the lazy tilt of a wing in the sky. "Geroff – bugger," he mumbles, taking the last, wet end of the cigarette with Sirius's fingers, dragging Sirius's hand to his mouth, inhaling. "S'too hot for that."

"F'r what," Sirius grins, stomach twisting with bravery, brain fuzzy with herbs, and leans in to suck the smoke from James's exhale, noses bumping, lips damp from tongues and chapped from sunlight. "This... eh?"

There is a moment, where the little remnant licks of smoke waft up, smudging into the dust in the air, curling into the damp strands of James's hair, making Sirius's eyes water. There are pinpricks on Sirius's skin, every place where the nerves are pressed to James's body – rasping stubble on his jaw, the dip of his chin, the sweaty indent of his elbow against Sirius's knee, the long, tanned, hot plane of his thigh, their knobby ankles, the slight curl of James's big toe.

"Fuck -- " he whispers, like a betrayed secret, against James's mouth – it comes out like more of a whimper, a plea. "Fucking tease."

James makes a sound like a slow, curious animal, eyes heavy, languid and brown. His hand, when it fists in Sirius's hair, is like a lazy nuzzle, thumbpad curving over the shape of Sirius's eyebrow.

"Stop shaking, mate," he says, quietly.

"I'm not – " Sirius says, and it sounds choked, to him, bizarre and faraway. "I'm not I just."

Their mouths collide like an accident, like a word – _you just what_ \- that was meant for air but ended curling over Sirius's tongue, instead. They taste like each other, gold and hot, with sand still under their fingernails, scraping each other's cheeks, the bitter rime of the ocean on their teeth, clicking, quieting, damp and cave-like sounds. The smoldering lump of cigarette falls from their wet fingers; Sirius clutches at James's knee with a slippery palm.

They are gasping for air – "Shite, just, just – _ngh_ ," James hisses – Sirius's teeth catch at James's lower lip when he shifts, bare knees scraping as he lifts his lazy, heavy-limbed body into James's lap, legs cramped and curled and skin to sloppy mouths and laboured, hot, breathing. Sirius braces both elbows on the wall beside James's head and gulps for clarity, tucking his nose against James's jaw.

"What," says James. "What..."

"Don't," Sirius laughs, slurring, dropping into the urge to paint the words on James's shoulder with his tongue. "Don't you dare fuckin' ask me."

James laughs, too, deep and throaty and hitched, warm against Sirius's chest. "What're you doing," he whispers, a hoarse challenge, grin on wet, red lips.

"I'm – " he mumbles, and tastes a swath of James's chest with a scrape and swirl of tongue, the rasp of teeth over James's quivering belly, his own body crowded up into the space of the alcove, soles of his feet cramping, thighs shaking as he bends.

"I'm bein' a pouf," he laughs, giddy, fingers scrambling with the waistband of James's trunks, nails slipping on the fabric, palm sliding on the skin of James's sweaty thigh. He's doomed, he realizes, lazy-eyed and heaving for air, because he's not as fucked as he should be. Not to say this, to make James believe that he's all glazed mouth and eyes and fumbling hands with no force of will.

"Already knew that," James groans, back arching up like a little sigh – making Sirius's mouth go thick and cottony, making him chew on the pad of James's thumb, where it grazes over his mouth.

"I'm – " he swallows, fingers finding a fist of fabric, and pulling, hooking over, baring, rucking down into the creases of James's hip. "'m gonna suck -- suck your prick," he whispers.

"Ah -- ," hisses James, and Sirius rasps the tip of his tongue against red, hard, salty skin. He feels James press a fist to the small of his back, wet knuckles sliding along his spine, dragging upwards, the _unh, unh, unh_ of James's breathing jerking all the way to his hand. When Sirius looks up, mouth full of saliva, flat of his tongue pressed to the vein of James's cock, he groans: James's damp face, hair wild, throat wet with sunlight and sweat.

He tastes a strange salt, like a dull, thin ocean, and he can feel the shudder of James's spine through his tongue, the thick tremble of his legs. He presses a palm between his own legs, groans, shoves into his own sweaty, shaking hand, gripping at himself with all the stark, greedy shame of a desperate first jerk.

"F-fuck," James whispers. "... your _mouth_."

Please, thinks Sirius, just, look. Oh god, and James comes, just like that, thighs jerking, the dull thud of his head on the wall, the scrape of his fingernails on the back of Sirius's neck. Sirius chokes roughly, fuzzy-headed and wet-eyed, and shaking in his own sticky skin.

 _Please,_ he thinks again, in the white space where he gasps for air against James's skin. _Just, look. It's._

* * *

Oh god, it's -- says every nerve under his skin. It's the irritation of dried saliva on his mouth, the sticky sweat filming on their skin, his soiled trunks. It's the dead, tight sort of silence between them, with James's head turned away into the setting sun, his eyes closed; it's the acrid smoke lingering on the tips of Sirius's fingers. It's the faint clatter of silverware, of pots and pans, in the kitchen downstairs, the distant clang of a buoy in the water, the _hssht_ of wind and waves.

Sirius swallows, and swings his aching, leaden legs off the trunk, bracing unsteady palms against the edge, metal cool on his skin. He thinks, this is the end. You idiot, you fucking idiot, you stupid _cunt_ , and James takes his wrist.

"What," he says, and wants to wince - his throat is painted with the hard whisper of someone who's been shouting - crying, maybe.

"You don't," says James. "Need to."

Sirius snorts, rubs his mouth, his nose, can't take his wrist out from under James's fingers.

"Just," says James. "Don't, okay?"

"Right," laughs Sirius. "I know."

"You – "

"I _know_ ," he snaps. "Christ."

So it is. With the vestiges of day on their backs, and touching at the pulsepoint of their bodies, Sirius knows, it _is_ like all those things, like all the worst dreams a child has (about being left alone, and not knowing why it makes his stomach twist like sour milk). It is, still, the triumph of belonging because you've done something right for someone else. It is kissing your best mate, drunk with stupidity, and he'll find a way to talk to you again, after ice cream at the docks and a silent walk on the dune grasses, fireflies in his hair. It is the way James will forget.

It may be, he thinks, looking at his own thin, browned knees, the most remarkable thing he's ever done, and only he will know.

* * *

[](http://n-clumpfinger.livejournal.com/profile)[**n_clumpfinger**](http://n-clumpfinger.livejournal.com/) is also known in lesser circles as [](http://imochan.livejournal.com/profile)[**imochan**.](http://imochan.livejournal.com/)


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